


A Play's the Thing

by drjohnhwatson



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Alternate Universe where the Boer War isn’t massively depressing, M/M, raffles is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drjohnhwatson/pseuds/drjohnhwatson
Summary: Raffles and Bunny both survived the Boer War and have settled into a sort of retirement.





	A Play's the Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3rnest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rnest/gifts).



The sun glared down hot upon me; I doubt it ever shone so brightly as it did whenever Raffles and I pledged our services and went abroad with guns pressed to our shoulders. I mopped at my brow, stopping my own personal advancement on the hill covered in brush and outcropping rocks waiting to catch and snag at clothing or unwitting skin, slicking away sweat and fanning my scalp with my hat before continuing.

We crept onward upon our bellies like low serpents, quick to scurry away should enemy fire draw too near, yet I generally faltered in the attempt, a sort of incongruity when taken with the name applied to me.

This point soon proved to be a disastrous one, as the burning pain that lanced through my leg accompanied a bullet that bore through the flesh and bone of my thigh, leaving me to flop into a pitiful pile in the dirt like a bird plucked from the sky.

Raffles' face appeared before me, painted against the blue backdrop that could only hope to match the colour of his eyes, and he seemed not to notice the whistling edge of bullets that pinged and flicked into the straggling bits of grass around us, dust flying into the air with each missed strike.

“Stay down,” I begged of him, but he acted as though he could not hear me, and in the next instant he had tucked me on my back behind a protective shield of stone while he knelt over me, unwinding bandages in order to tend to the wound I received from foolish sluggishness.

“It would be far easier for us if these devils could keep still,” Raffles mumbled almost more for his benefit than my own sake, squinting his eyes shut as he peered to sight his gun and then fire it with a bang. 

I closed my own eyes, wishing that I could quiet the roars and cries that never seemed to cease, that followed me even in the silence like whispers that refused to subside.

“Bunny—” he began, his hand reaching out to jostle my arm, and when I looked up at him again I noted his face, warmed by the touch of the sun but a fraction pale under the circumstances. “Your leg...?”

“It—it doesn't feel as bad as it did at first,” I admitted, and it was the truth. The searing pain dulled; everything dulled, if I spoke honestly. I felt as though I was not a part of myself, as though I viewed everything as being something watched, like a play.

He offered me a cigarette he hoarded without my knowledge, and I took it, our fingertips lingering longer than necessary as he gave me a soft smile while lighting it for me. Thankfully so; my hand trembled so terribly while I held the Sullivan that I could not have managed the simple task.

“I will have this grey felt hat _yet,_ ” he grumbled, already forgetting me in his quest to stomp out an unseen foe, and I did not watch but heard the click of his trigger as he pulled it.

“It was I who let you in for this,” he said quietly, feeling absent-mindedly at his belt of ammunition to replenish his stock, careful to keep an eye in the direction he had been shooting.

I laughed, although it was a strange place, a strange situation, in which to find mirth. And yet—isn't that just the way it is? “No; I'm glad I came out, and anyway, you could hardly keep me away even if you'd made up your mind to go without me.” 

“I suppose that's so,” Raffles agreed easily, a quick grin sliding onto his face.

“I _do_ wish you would be careful, though,” I pressed, my leg throbbing to remind me that I still possessed it, and I winced, spreading my hand over the bandages as though that might help in some manner.

He rattled on about the fellow and his blasted hat, and my heart beat in my ears and in my leg and in my arms—a fierce, thudding tattoo. 

“I have had a good time, Bunny,” he said, and his voice sounded quite sad to me. His eyes glimmered, however, and reminded me of all those times that came before, whenever I was half out of my mind with terror but he revelled gaily, his hand finding my own and squeezing it, or his abrupt laughter bursting out, calming my nerves as nothing else could.

“I know you have, old chap.” 

“Bunny!” he cried, voice higher, and I stirred at his excitement, realising that he sat up. 

“Well?”

“It's not only been the best time I ever had, old Bunny, but I'm not half sure—”

The sport he jested at for a quarter of an hour caught up to him finally, and cut his sentence short. He dropped flat quickly, more quickly than I should have liked. I thought it a joke—and not an amusing one—but the hairs upon my neck stood on end and testified that I knew.

Deep down, I _knew._

“Raffles—this isn't funny,” I said, rising even though it was stupidity to do so. It did not matter any more; I think I would welcome the bullet. But it did not come; it spared me as I swivelled and crawled nearer to him, ignoring the ferocious pain flashing through my thigh as I reached for him, quivering from stem to stern.

I rested my left hand in hair bleached white far earlier than its time, a tear already trembling at the tip of my nose as I bent over him, my right hand cupping his cheek, thumbing it as I looked down into those blue eyes I loved so well, dimmed now and staring past me toward a point I could not reach.

* * *

 “Bunny— _Bunny!_ ”

I jolted awake, breath catching in my throat, and I started at the warm hand on my shoulder. The sheet stuck to me, weighted me, and the darkness crushed me, flattening me until the electric light flicked on, blazing merrily and half-blinding me with its brilliance as it chased away the black of night.

Raffles stood a few paces from me, yawning blearily and scrubbing at his eyes, hair in complete disarray from sleep. “A nightmare again?”

“Yes,” I said glumly.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked, voice raspy from hours of disuse.

I knew he referred to the light; it always served to help soothe me, to delineate what was real and what had never happened, to fling away the horrors the crept into my dreams when I least anticipated them.

“Yes,” I said, voice even smaller, and he turned off the light as abruptly as he had turned it on.

“The Boer War?” he wondered, near to the bed judging by the location of his voice, and I could tell by the timbre of it that he knew without asking, so I nodded uselessly. “Oh, _Bunny..._ ”

“I know...” I began, my voice a squeak, and I cleared it, “I _know_ that it is foolish, but...but I see it, and...and it's so real, and...Raffles, I can bear any pain done to me, and I can relive the wound I suffered then, but to see you...to see...to see _you..._ ”

The bed sagged as he clambered into it, and he continued on to my half, somehow accurately judging where I might be in the inky darkness, his knees touching into the bed on either side of my legs as he straddled me, his thumbs rubbing away the tears that sprang fresh to my eyes and streaked down my cheeks. It was silly of me to weep over something that had not occurred, and yet the terror, the _grief_ of it, gripped me tightly, leaving me cracked to my foundation.

He rested his forehead against mine, and he dropped his voice into a silken whisper, uttering a string of words that were nothing so much as gibberish and comforting sounds. It did much to set my heart at ease, and I sank into relief when he kissed me gently all across my face too many times to count, resting finally upon my lips.

“Have I done sufficiently well in my endeavours to prove that I am most certainly alive?” he asked as he settled down, welcoming me when I snuggled closer to him, and he drew the blanket back around us both.

“I think so,” I said, smiling at his faux inhalation of horror.

“You only _think?_   Have I failed my rabbit, then?”

“No. You never fail me, Raffles,” I said, and I meant it as I rested my hand over his heart.

* * *

I clamped my hands tight around the rusty handle and gave it a firm pump, digging my boots into the mud as I forced the grip up and then down, working the well in order to produce a jet of surprisingly cold water. It rang down into the metal bucket I placed beneath the tap, clanging and sloshing with every jerk of my already weary arms.

“Your favourite chore,” Raffles mused, eyes bright as he strode toward me from our little cottage, clad in a tan jacket and matching little cap, wheeling his bicycle alongside him.

“Are you going somewhere?” I straightened, leaving off my task as he pulled up to me, and he gave a long stare at the bucket.

“I thought I was, but if you mean to draw a bath...” he mulled over it and then shook his head. “Yes, I'm off.”

“Well, I—I can go with you,” I said, dropping the handle and wiping my palms on the thighs of my trousers in a futile attempt to dislodge the flakes of colour that rubbed off the handle and onto me.

“You don't even know what it is that you volunteer to do,” Raffles said with a smile.

“Does it matter?” I asked, and he clapped a hand to my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“No. But—I don't really need assistance for this. I'll be back by the evening. Wish me luck!” he declared, throwing his hand in the air in a manner of good-bye as he hopped forward, yet he came down onto the ground rather than the bicycle, wheeling back round to face me.

I offered an arch of my brow as a question to his behaviour, and he smiled ruefully. “I forgot,” Raffles said, and he kissed me upon the temple, the brush of his lips fleeting but like fire to my skin.

He then leapt up onto his bicycle, careening to the path and then picking up speed as he drifted down the hill, disappearing from my line of sight.

I returned to the hateful task of dredging up water, wondering how a cursed island could provide electricity and phones to all its inhabitants, yet still need its water to be pumped out of the ground by hand.

Briefly I wished that Raffles could have stayed behind and helped me with the said bath, in every fashion, but then concluded it was best he had left because it would have been an absolute devil trying to collect enough water to suit the both of us.

I sighed and heaved down on the squeaky handle, a torrent of water gushing out into the awaiting bucket.

* * *

 I had prepared ham and cheese sandwiches for both myself and Raffles to eat at lunch, and seeing that he was not present and my appetite was strong, I took both with me and trekked down to the beach, only perhaps a five minute walk from our burrow when cutting through the tiny cemetery that flanked along the edge of the sand. 

Hopping down from the embankment, I dropped into the fine dirt and spread out a ratty blanket, set to enjoy a day spent out-of-doors. The lapping water of the bay reminded me of the seaside back at home—although days of sunshine far outnumbered rain here.

Raffles and I crossed the ocean after returning in one piece from the War; we seemed to agree mutually, without needing discussion, that our luck was bound to fray and snap if we stayed any longer. We swapped England for New York, and we exchanged a booming city for a tiny town on an island that bore a few hundred people.

I asked Raffles once how he managed to find such a place, and he laughed, telling me that he thought it perfect for us when he read about it in a newspaper article boasting that it had such a low rate of crime that two cells on the island for lawbreakers was two _too many._ I could not tell if he spoke seriously, or if he made the entire thing up, but he proved right in his estimation that it would be an ideal place to call our own.

A girl ran through with a line of string, a kite bouncing along behind her until it caught the wind and soared up high, swinging in a circle before steadying itself and cresting, its shadow casting over me as both it and its pilot passed. 

A few children played near the water, wading in enough for it to reach up to their waists before kicking into a frenzied splashing, shrieking at the ferocity employed by their opponents as well as the temperature of the early day in March, wind whistling and tugging at their clothing until they ducked deeper so that only their heads showed above the surface.

I finished my sandwich and started on Raffles', watching a boy who crouched with his knees pulled to his chest, hunched over an oyster. He dug a flat knife into the hinge, wiggled it, and slid it along the lip, prying it open and flipping the meat over before sucking the shell.

Gulls winged above, crying and dipping down when they thought they spotted a morsel of food or a person who might oblige them, and I threw them a hunk of sandwich—the last of my lunch. A handful of birds descended madly, screaming and jostling each other until one emerged the victor, running away on spindly legs to quickly devour its spoils away from its brethren, and I stretched out on the blanket, listening to the sounds of life all around me as I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, I discovered the sun had arced above, streaking the sky with pinks and oranges as it descended low to meet the horizon. No one bothered me; that was something I liked about this town, where everyone seemed to know one another and always had a friendly smile to offer.

I was not alone, however—Raffles sat next to me, long legs stretched out in front of him, palms flat on the blanket as he watched the water lap into the shore, a small tugboat drifting out for perhaps one more go before returning. He stared ahead, past the proceedings, looking into his mind rather than the people before him, and his eyes were bright but his expression tired, worn weary. It was a look he often courted now, when he did not think I watched him.

“Awake are we, Bunny?” he murmured, giving me a side-glance, somehow noting I had ceased slumbering, and I yawned, rolling onto my side and propping my cheek up on my hand as I fought against returning to sleep. 

“Did you just get back?”

“No, no,” he said. “I made a stop at our cottage and found you not in; I had a good estimation of where you might be, though.”

“It would not take you long to find me,” I laughed, and he flashed a fleeting smile at a reference to the size of the island.

“A difficult day at the typewriter?” he wondered, and my mood soured as I flopped back onto the blanket.

“The words would not come to me, and those that did were terrible,” I grumbled, and when he waggled his silver case, tantalising me with the promise of a cigarette, I sat up to receive his gift. He lit it, sharing my gaze, and he waved out the lucifer, flicking it off into the straggly grass before puffing at his Sullivan.

“I noticed; there was enough crumpled paper 'round the desk to serve a forest,” he remarked dryly, and I forgot my cigarette, lost instead in viewing the curve of his jaw and the length of his nose, the sun casting out shadows to play along his face and hood his eyes.

His lips tipped up as he guessed at my game, and I blushed, looking quickly away from him. “Where did you go today—or do you mean not to tell me?” I asked a nearby seashell, and he tsked.

“What wounded feelings you nurse! Yes, I do mean to tell you. In fact—I should prefer to show you,” he responded, and I looked back at him, curiosity ignited by both his words and the playful tone in which he voiced them.

He produced two pink tickets, and I took them from him, running a finger over the print. It said nothing save the name of the theatre—the Savoy—and the time and night to gain admittance—eight o'clock on the fifteenth.

“The Ides of March...did you plan this?” I asked softly, and he shrugged broadly.

“Of a sort,” he said, tone casual, and I suspected that he put more thought into it than he let me believe.

“But what is the play?”

“I cannot recall,” he feigned innocence.

“I do not believe that for a minute; what do you have planned?” I narrowed my eyes at him, and he touched his hand to his chest, affronted.

“ _Nothing at all,_  save that you ought have a good time. _Will_ you do that, Bunny? Will you _try?_ ”

“Of...course,” I said hesitantly, a trepidation rising within me, but it diminished when he clapped his hand to my shoulder, cigarette perched perilously on his lips.

“Good man,” he said, and when I leaned over, he lifted his arm and allowed me to nestle close at his side, watching together as the dying light of the evening rippled and dappled on the surface of the water.

* * *

 I returned to the misery of the written word, adding additional sheaves of paper that would eventually make their way into a snapping fire in the hearth. Raffles drifted through at one point, muttering vaguely and cracking a joke I did not much care for, and then he continued on his way, dripping paint on a canvas and speaking to me from the corner of the room until his work absorbed too much of his attention.

 When I finally had something that might be accepted by the paper that deigned to hire me—Providence providing me the occupation given the minuscule population of City Island—I turned to read it to Raffles, but found that he had departed his corner, leaving behind his half-finished rendition of the sunset we experienced earlier.

 I brushed my teeth utilising water dredged up that morning and then retreated to the bedroom. It was a cosy space papered with photographs of acquaintances and relatives who thought us both dead and buried, and I felt a pang over the notion as I rummaged through the bureau for my pyjamas, slipping silently into them.

 Raffles himself had tucked in before me, taking along a novel to pore over, but apparently the tome only served to send him to sleep and he lie curled on his side, the book near enough to his face that he could use his nose for a bookmark.

I plucked the volume carefully away, seeking out a scrap of paper to save his spot for him, and set it quietly on the stand at his side of the bed before turning off the light, fumbling around in the darkness before I reached my spot on the right.

“I thought you decided to sleep at your desk,” Raffles muttered, and I snorted.

“Nearly. Did I wake you?”

“Mmm,” Raffles hummed, finding my hand and pressing his lips to my fingertips, mumbling into my palm. “Do you think you will have nightmares tonight?”

“I cannot say,” I said bitterly, although I did not think it likely. They never seemed to chase one another's tail; rather, they arrived suddenly, as would a blow to the stomach, and left me reeling in much the same manner.

Raffles was silent for a moment, and he dropped my hand. “Well,” he said finally. “Come here then, Bunny. Let us see what we can do to keep them at bay.”

I rolled over onto him, tangling us hopelessly in the sheets, and Raffles' fingers found the buttons of my shirt easily, as though he had light by which to see them. I hampered him only slightly in his efforts by peppering every bit of his face I could find with a kiss, and he scolded me in as sharp a tone as he could manage, undercutting his reprimand with a laugh when he tugged open my shirt and slid his hand down my stomach.

* * *

“If you fidget with your collar any more, you will look as though you pulled your clothes from the very bottom of a pile,” Raffles tutted, not even glancing my way while my hand froze, ready to do just what he warned against.

“I—I know. It's only...well,” I moved my hands to my lap and ran them over one another in a futile attempt to calm my nerves, and Raffles watched the motion out of the corner of his eye before returning his gaze to the window of the carriage. “It has been _some time_ since I have needed to wear anything this...nice. And...we have been so long out on the island that I only feel _out of sorts_ when in the city.”

“Is that all?” he asked placidly.

“...Yes,” I said, and he shook his head.

“As if I could not see it on your face; you think that I have whisked you here on some _nefarious_ pretence. That you walk into a den of lions rather than to a theatre,” he said, and I winced at how easily he read me.

“I do not think I could be faulted for entertaining the notion,” I sniffed. “It would not be the first time you have done such a thing.”

“It would be the first time since I _renounced_ what originally reunited us,” he countered.

“Perhaps, but what better night would it be to start again, if you wanted to do so?” I argued, and his eyes glittered, drawing forth my previous uneasiness.

“What a night it would _be,_ Bunny,” he said, hardly putting my fears to rest as the carriage rumbled to a halt. He hopped down first and then held his hand up to me, helping me out as I winced at the stiffness in my afflicted leg, rubbing at it as I touched down upon pavement.

A surging of people littered the walk-way outside the theatre, and I caught snatches here and there of their chatter. Some quite young women rambled on and on as to the beauty of some fellow—I imagine the principle actor in the stage-play—and then I heard a word that froze the blood in my veins like a touch of winter.

“Raffles.”

Could they have found us, all the way out here? _Would_ they search for us? It seemed almost too cruel to ponder; why would they spend the time and resources to hunt down two men who stole trinkets and baubles? Were there not men—and women—who had done far worse?

No, it must have been a trick of the mind, but it was said once more, and there could be no doubt at what I heard.

“ _Raffles!_ ” I hissed in as quiet a voice as I could manage, my hand shaking as I grabbed him by the arm. He glanced down at me, perplexed. “We have to go— _now._ ”

“What? No! Don't be absurd, Bunny. We have only just arrived—”

“I heard a man say your name; I don't know how, but they've caught up to us, and—” I stuttered to a halt as he led me slightly away from the crowd, his hands at my elbows.

“Did you really not guess at what we are to be seeing?” he wondered, and I shook my head vigorously. “ _Raffles_.”

I shivered. “But—a coincidence?” I asked desperately.

“No.”

“Then— _you?_ ” I cried, and he answered me with a quick nod. “But...but _how?_ ”

“Someone thought a story featuring myself would make a romantic enough tale, I suppose, and popped it on the stage—have you not heard of this? It has been out for months now.”

“ _No!_ ” I wailed, glancing around frantically to make certain no one watched us. “How— _what_ would make you think this is a good idea? Are you _mad?!_ ”

“Bunny, Bunny, _Bunny,_ ” he said, voice soothing as his thumbs rubbed circles against my upper arms. “ _Think_ about it—the both of us could march up right now and tell someone who we are; would they believe us? I doubt it; they would imagine we were up to some sort of mischief, or playing at a joke that was not very humourous.”

“And do you have plans to do that?” I asked warily.

“No,” he replied, and I relaxed, taking him at his word and the earnest look in his gleaming blue eyes. “The thought of two men acting out a fictional event in our lives—do you not find it a trifle amusing? Especially that they play to those they mimic without realising it?” 

I smiled a fraction. “That _does_ sound funny...” I admitted, and he punched me lightly on the shoulder.

“That's the spirit. Let us find our seats, however, before we have to clamber over others to reach them.”

Once our tickets were torn in half and we received stubs, they handed us small green books, waving and imploring that we continue in order to avoid a crush at the entrance. I stopped stock-still instead, shaken to find that the little volume contained embellishments of our exploits, but Raffles pulled me after him, his demeanour as bright as it had been in the days of our past.

I expected the spectre of Mackenzie 'round every corner, ready to spring out from behind a pillar or beneath a curtain, but we made it to our velvet seats unaccosted, and Raffles cracked open the book, pointing out a neat signature at the front.

“There's me; a pity there's nothing from the resident Bunny.”

“What made you think of this?” I asked, leaning toward him, and he laughed quietly.

“I really did believe that you would rumble my plans as soon as you had the tickets in your hand, but I was pleasantly surprised.”

“I don't—I don't read any of the advertisements for the theatre,” I grumbled darkly. “Perhaps I ought to start; I just assumed that I would not come to the city, so I would not need to look.”

“As for why I did it—sometimes a little day or two, or an evening—can be a breath of fresh air. Also—I could hardly resist.”

“Of course not,” I sighed, sinking in my seat, and when the lights flickered to denote the show would start soon, my heart gave a small, involuntary leap.

* * *

As it turned out, I truly had nothing to fear. No one paid Raffles or myself any mind; all eyes were turned to the stage once the lights dimmed and the actors took their positions. Even I had difficulty tearing my attention from it; I knew the story to be a fabrication, yet it still held me riveted—captivated—and I worried until the end that Raffles (the character) might not make it to freedom.

It was a feeling I entertained many times over the years, and although I was glad I need not suffer it any longer, it was an oddly welcome nostalgia that washed over me at the remembrance of so many reckless and dangerous escapades now left to the past.

“What did you think?” Raffles asked as we trickled out with the crowd, returning to the lobby, and I scuffed my boots into the crimson carpet, shrugging my shoulders.

“A little too romantic for my blood.”

“I think you mean to say you could do without the woman entirely,” Raffles said sagely.

“Well...I would not complain if that were to be the case.”

“The Bunny onstage was a good deal taller than you,” Raffles said casually, and I rolled my eyes.

“And the Raffles was older than _you,_ " I pointed out, and he waved his hand dismissively.

“It is so difficult to remain true to life,” he said, and then he bade me to wait for him, lifting his hand to stop a fellow entering the auditorium.

They spoke together for a moment until he nodded, and then Raffles waved to me that I ought join him, and so I did, resurfacing at his side.

“What are you doing now? The play is over,” I said, struggling to keep pace with Raffles' long legs and the theatre fellow's quick, frenetic strides.

“It is, but I thought of your struggle with the typewriter. What could be _easier_ than writing about yourself?” he said, and for the second time that evening, a chill rolled over me.

“I think this is a _terrible_ idea,” I declared, wheeling to head back the way that we came, yet Raffles anticipated this and turned me 'round, frog-marching me along with him.

“They are only a pair of theatre men—and imagine the money the newspaper will pay you,” he muttered enticingly, serving to woo me to his way of thinking.

The teen-aged boy threaded us along, onto the stage and past the curtain, trailing down a cramped and narrow hallway before abruptly stopping at the very last door. He rapped his knuckles on it and leaned toward the wood. “There are a couple of reporters here to see you, sir. Do you have the time?”

A pause, and then a _very_ reluctant ' _yes_ ' reached our ears, and the youth shrugged at the response. “You can go in, then.”

“Thank-you,” Raffles said, and the boy skimmed along the edge of the wall to get around us before hurrying back toward the direction of the lobby.

I anticipated that there would only be one man inside the room—the man who had taken up the mantle of the eponymous character—but the fellow who had played as me kept him company, and I smiled at the realisation.

“Which one of you is Manders?” the lead actor asked, leaning back in his seat and fixing us with a cool stare, determined to suss it out if neither of us volunteered the information. His young companion rounded up two small wooden stools and gestured that we ought to sit in them.

I squeaked in fear, and then shot Raffles a heated glare. He had _used my name!_

“We both are,” Raffles said smoothly, and the man raised a thick black brow. “He's Harry, and I'm Ralph. Brothers, you see. I do the sketches and he writes the article.”

“Harry? Harry Manders?” the younger actor wondered, perched on the edge of the desk next to his colleague, and he straightened, smiling faintly as he tilted his head. “That's funny—that's my character's name.”

“We were discussing that very fact during intermission,” Raffles said, and the younger of the pair leaned forward to grip us both by the hands.

“I suppose I don't have to introduce Kyrle Bellew to you, but my name is Frank. Frank Connor. As I said, I played Bunny in the production. Erm. If you don't want me in here for this, I can leave,” he said, directing his thumb toward the door.

“No; stay,” I said, and he settled back into his spot at Bellew's arm. I preferred him to remain; Mr. Connor had an easy, genial air, and did much to dispel the intensity that his fellow actor exuded as he watched us carefully.

“You can start,” Mr. Bellew directed, and my mind went completely blank beneath the gaze of his sharp, dark eyes. He and Raffles were both, of course, English (my actor sounded to my ear to be from the States), and both bore prematurely white hair, but the resemblances ended there. Raffles was tall and broad in the shoulder, and the man portraying him was _small,_ smaller in stature than even myself, and he possessed a petiteness that made him seem even tinier in person when removed from the height of the floorboards.

“Um...” I trailed off, fiddling anxiously with the pencil and paper Raffles passed into my hands, and I noted that he had begun to doodle away on his own paper, fixing a serious expression to his countenance that I knew to be a pretence.

“First time interviewing...?” Mr. Connor coaxed, tone gentle, and I blushed furiously.

“No...” I admitted in a wash of embarrassment, and Mr. Bellew voiced a noise of frustration while his friend's calm look never wavered.

“He _is_ a little intimidating; be _nice,_ Mr. Bellew,” Connor teased, shoving the other actor's shoulder lightly, and to my surprise Bellew seemed to take the advice, relaxing his stony gaze marginally.

“How...how did you begin your career?” I asked, hand juddering across the page as I wrote down my question and prepared for his answer.

“I needed the money,” he responded simply, and in the bored fashion of one who has encountered the same query in life more times than could be enumerated, “Sailing the seas did not pay out quite as I would have liked, and I lost far more than I made in the mines. Starvation is a serviceable motivator, and I seized on a light comedy part—and so I have been on the stage ever since.”

“What do you think of Raffles? The man, not the role,” Raffles asked innocently, ignoring my quick look at him, content with scribbling on his page.

“He is a loveable cuss for all his faults—the play would not succeed if the audience was not sympathetic to the character,” Mr. Bellew snorted and rolled his eyes. “Still, in donning the role, I have found a certain _suspicion_ cast my way when I break into wealthier circles, as though my fingers will have become lighter by virtue of what I have portrayed.”

Raffles' face lit with delight at the idea, and I regained the reins. “What do you think of your part, Mr. Connor?” I winced as soon as the question slipped from my lips; Bellew would certainly be irritated at the idea that I requested an interview with him only to speak to another. Yet Mr. Bellew's expression softened, and to my surprise he smiled as he glanced up at the younger actor, expectantly awaiting his reply.

Connor dangled one long leg over the other as he leaned away, back touching to the looking glass. Between the pointed height disparity between him and Mr. Bellew and his dark hair, Mr. Connor did not look a great deal like me—and for that I was _thankful._ Had they cast someone that happened to be my mirror image, I might have swallowed my own tongue before ever entering the dressing room.

“My part? Bunny is loyal—I like that quite a lot.”

“To a _criminal,_ however,” Raffles said with measured distaste, clearly enjoying the meeting immensely.

“Yes, that is true, but I think there is something in being dedicated so intensely to another, whether it be for good or bad,” Mr. Connor said thoughtfully, and he looked not at me but at Mr. Bellew when he spoke his piece.

I cleared my throat, finding my voice again, and Mr. Bellew tore his gaze from his actor-friend to stare at me. “Whose idea was it to add Gwendoline Conran in?” I asked, and although I tried to mask my disdain, I feared it was evident.

“The author's,” Mr. Bellew mumbled, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “Audiences love a good romance.”

“Well— _I_ didn't!” I cried, and Mr. Connor smiled at me, evidently amused that I voiced my displeasure.

“We cannot please everyone all the time,” Mr. Bellew waved his hand dismissively.

“But it wasn't _true!_ We—” I faltered, heart fluttering in my throat, aware that Raffles stiffened next to me and both actors stared. “We have no proof _they_ ever associated with a woman like Gwendoline.”

Mr. Connor gripped his chin, musing. “How is it that you know so much about them?"

The nervousness within me blossomed into true anxiety, and I grasped at straws, desperate to change the subject to something— _anything—_ else. “Shouldn't—shouldn't _you_ be Bunny,” I pointed to Mr. Bellew, “and shouldn't _you_ be Raffles given your looks and height?”

Raffles let out a cough that sounded like an aborted laugh, and Mr. Bellew's expression immediately soured while Mr. Connor giggled. “What say you, Mr. Bellew? Do you agree?” he asked, nudging his leg against his friend's side.

“Frank— _really._ You are being insufferable today,” Bellew said with no real heat. “Were Bunny to be the title character, then I would play him. He is not, and so they have placed me otherwise. How is your sketch-work going? Might I see?”

Raffles turned his little notepad so that we might see his art, and it seemed to me to be the worst rendition of a man that anyone could have designed. It was purposely done; the faint upturn in Raffles' lips warned me so, and I knew him to be better at art than the monstrous caricature he created while we spoke.

Mr. Connor utterly collapsed in on himself at the sight of it, helpless to his mirth as he dislodged some tubes and bottles of make-up from their place on the desk, and Mr. Bellew rose, offering his hand stiffly.

“I have remembered that I have other engagements; I am afraid I have to cut this short.” 

I shook his hand, wilting a little in the face of his visible annoyance, but Raffles stumbled when he stood, calling out in pain. He might have fallen to the ground completely had Mr. Bellew not ably caught him, keeping Raffles upright when his legs threatened to fail him.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Connor straightened, concerned, and Raffles let out a shuddering hiss.

“Ah, yes...yes...it's only this old war wound of mine; it locks up from time-to-time, you see. Thank-you, Mr. Bellew.”

“Oh, I—I did not know,” Bellew responded, mildly chagrined, and he patted Raffles' shirt-front.

“I can help you, if you'd like...” Mr. Connor offered, frowning, palms flat on the desk in order to pop up and assist us, but Raffles looped his arm through my own.

“My brother has helped me since birth—no point in changing that now. Thank-you for your time, gentlemen,” Raffles tapped his fingertips to his hat, and we exited.

I only felt as though I could breathe once we left the building altogether, and I exhaled, the cool night air stinging my hot skin as we walked. “ _Why_ did you choose to antagonise him?” I wondered, and Raffles laughed.

“I had not meant to do so—not _really,_ ” he insisted when I gave him a look as we stood upon the walkway a couple blocks from the theatre, a few people drifting around us as though we were a boulder placed in the midst of a stream. “I had sketched aimlessly while you conducted your _interview,_ and he _did_ ask me to show him. So I obliged.”

“Show me again,” I said, and then I laughed when he tugged the paper out from his souvenir book. “I do not think they will allow me to pin that with my review.”

“I had think it better that you do not publish anything at all and leave this to be a purely recreational evening,” he said, his voice a hint toward a book I thought long closed.

“What did you do?” I asked, and he reached into the breast-pocket of his jacket, plucking out a gold pocket-watch I did not recognise.

“It keeps pretty time,” Raffles murmured, running a finger over the face.

Instantly I recalled his stumbling—his adoption of my own injury—and I clapped both hands to my mouth, horrified. “You stole Mr. Bellew's watch!" 

“ _Quiet,_ Bunny—for Heaven's sake, _do_ be quiet!” he snapped, and I looked wildly around, half-expecting a whole fleet of men to descend on our ears and drag us off to gaol.

“Why would you _do_ it? You promised me we would not—”

“I had no plans for it,” he cut me off with a common refrain that night, tucking it away once more. “It only seemed a sort of serendipity to be granted a private audience with him, and when the idea came to me, well. I could not shake it. Raffles stealing from Raffles—would you have done any differently?”

“Yes, _obviously,_ ” I said, but as he gazed at me, I relented. Perhaps the portrayal of his character imbued a restlessness within him, and he spirited away Mr. Bellew's watch in a harmless way to thumb his nose at the play. “Thank-you for tonight.”

He could read the meaning beyond such easily voiced words; I spoke of tonight, and hundreds of nights before this one. I spoke of afternoons, too, spent in his company in front of the fire or caught out in a sudden rain-shower, huddling beneath his jacket to keep dry. I spoke of early mornings where sleep left me fuzzy but still I reached out until my fingers brushed against some portion of him to remind me that he remained at my side—or perhaps that I remained at his.

I spoke of—hopefully—hundreds of nights to come.

“Of course, Bunny,” he said softly, and he offered me his arm to take.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh, I DID THIS FOR THAT RAFFLES WEEK THING. I wasn't actually gonna do it, then I was talked into it. I haven't written a Raffles fic in, like, five years. It's been so long! So I'm wary. I'm also shit at both description AND titles.
> 
> Nothing much else to say except Kyrle Bellew and Frank A. Connor really did play Raffles and Bunny, respectively, in the stage roles, so I thought it would be fun to allow them to make (brief?) cameos.
> 
> Also thanks to Ernest for their help with ideas; I would have floundered otherwise.
> 
> I hope you like it....!!


End file.
